


romance of the maybe undeserving

by ArgylePirateWD



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: (with a happy ending), Angst, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Rejection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22776052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD
Summary: He did not expect offering John his heart to add to his list of regrets.Harold makes a move. John says no. But is anything ever that simple between the two of them?
Relationships: Harold Finch/John Reese
Comments: 11
Kudos: 122
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	romance of the maybe undeserving

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MnemonicMadness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MnemonicMadness/gifts).



There are many things Harold has come to regret over the years. Some are small, insignificant, little embarrassments that somehow etched themselves permanently into his brain. Others he still feels keenly, radiating from his constantly-aching bones, reminding him of all he's ever done horribly wrong.

He did not expect offering John his heart to add to his list of regrets.

_"I'm sorry,"_ John said to him, his ever-soft voice barely above a whisper. _"I just...I don't feel that way about you, Finch."_

There was something wrong in the way John said it, something off, like it was a lie, and yet it still cut deep into Harold's chest. Whether he believed the words or not, they still remained what they were. Hours later, the pain hasn't faded—a gnawing, hollow ache beneath his breastbone. John had been gentle, kind, had apologized again, squeezed his shoulder, brought him another cup of tea before he left. Promised this wouldn't change anything, that Harold's confession would have no impact on the partnership they'd built, the friendship, any of it.

Harold feels vaguely ill. This changes everything.

That cup of tea went cold hours ago, still sits untouched near Harold's hand. Harold himself, well, he is certain he must have done _something_ in the meantime. His old injuries hurt like always, but they are not aching as badly as they do when he's sat still for too long, and Bear is quiet rather than demanding a meal or three. But nothing has been committed to memory. For all he knows, he has stayed as still as that cup of tea, staring sightlessly at screens that have long been dark, despite the evidence that says otherwise.

"I was so sure," he says aloud. "I thought..." But he'd been wrong, rendered so oblivious by the haze of his affection that he'd missed that it wasn't returned.

It isn't the first time. He made that same mistake with Nathan many years ago. One would think he would have learned from that, that he'd know how to recognize the difference between a deep and beautiful friendship and a romantic sort of fondness. He'd certainly thought he had.

But the way John _looked_ at him. So often, he would catch John staring at him with softness in his eyes, like John was enraptured by his very existence. John looked at him like he was magical, like he was everything that mattered in the universe and beyond it. There were times Harold thought he'd caught John staring at his mouth, his lips, times he was certain John had been staring at even less chaste regions of his body.

It wasn't the entirety of his evidence, but it was what made Harold act, what made him so certain. John's touch was always kind, his actions always generous, but his eyes. Harold thought he knew John's eyes, thought he could read them, thought he understood them.

Was he that mistaken?

He shakes his head at himself. No need to dwell upon it now. It's time to move on with his life. Time to go home.

Home. Another pang hits him in the chest, so hard he clenches his eyes shut against the pain of it. Home, to an empty apartment when he thought he might be sharing it soon. Home to a quiet, late dinner alone with his dog, not with the man he'd gladly give his life for.

He takes off his glasses and runs his hands over his face, rubbing at his tired eyes along the way. Oh, this is not the evening he had planned. How could he have been so wrong?

"Because you _were_ wrong," he says, putting his glasses back where they belong, making himself straighten up, smooth down his clothes, get up from his seat and gather his things. "I was wrong. It's that simple."

Except that doesn't sit right, somehow. All the data was there—in John's eyes, John's touch, John's actions. Even in the way John said, _"I don't feel that way about you."_ Harold keeps looking back to that moment, those words, and something doesn't _fit_. He's missing something.

Bear is not curled up in his bed. His bowl is still full. And, now that Harold thinks about it, he never heard John leave the building. What else has he missed?

Is it possible—is it at all possible—that John was lying to him?

Harold's breath gets stuck in his chest. He forces himself to inhale, exhale, again and again. Oh, he can't—he _cannot_ let himself consider this, cannot let himself hope. He must put on his coat, his scarf, his hat, fetch Bear, go home. He must accept the simple fact that John told him no, and he must move on with his life. That is all one can do—all he can do—with this sort of heartbreak.

Sitting near the bottom of the stairs is John, slumped silently against the railing, Bear's head resting in his lap. John's hand moves listlessly through the thick fur around Bear's neck. At the sound of Harold, Bear lifts his head to look at him, and his tail gives a brief, obligatory wag, but John needs him more. With a plaintive canine sigh, Bear drops his head back onto John's thigh, offering his other master comfort.

Neither of them move for a very long time. Harold feels strangely suspended in the moment, unwilling to fracture the quiet, unwilling to risk further awkwardness. But his body demands accommodations, and after what might be seconds or hours, the pain in his back and hip give him no choice but to sit down, and he lowers himself carefully next to John, mouth clamped tightly shut against a grunt of discomfort.

Bear glances at him, and Harold reaches over and starts stroking his head, his fingers following the curve of Bear's skull, over soft, soft fur.

When the tension finally becomes unbearable, Harold must speak. "I thought you'd gone home for the day, Mr. Reese."

John exhales, a quiet burst of air that's barely louder than the rest. "I couldn't..." John pauses for a moment, then shakes his head slightly, and repeats, "I couldn't."

There's something spinning in John's head, something he obviously needs to get out. Harold waits, letting him collect his thoughts, until John finally speaks again. "You ever...you ever say something stupid? Something you'll always wish you could take back?"

"Yes," Harold replies, without hesitation, his heart lodging itself in his throat. "A great many things, yes."

John nods, and, after another extended pause, says, "I fucked up tonight. I lied to someone who...someone who's given me everything. Someone who doesn't deserve it." He turns to Harold, his blue eyes wide and sad, and adds, "Someone who deserves much better than me."

Harold swallows hard, but it does nothing for the tightness squeezing his windpipe, nor the new ache that's scared his traitorous heart out of his chest and into his throat. Something else has lodged itself in his chest cavity, the faintest little spark of something bright and warm. All he can manage to say is, "Oh?"

"I panicked," John says. "You said...what you said, and I just...you're you, and I'm me, and I...you don't deserve that. You deserve something good. Someone good."

Oh, Harold recognizes that feeling now. It's one of the most dangerous of all, the most deadly, the most forbidden, worse than fear and anger, even. He is _hoping_ now. Underneath the hollowed-out ache of rejection, the pain of affections denied, hope is bursting to life like a cotyledon from a seed, wary and green in his chest.

He moves his hand over John's widely-splayed one, soft tufts of Bear's fur skimming his fingers. "You are not the only one here who feels deeply unworthy of anything good that might come to him," he says. "I've made some mistakes—a great deal of them, many of them quite substantial. I am...in the eyes of many, I am likely not what one would consider a 'good man'—not in the slightest.

"But—and, please, do correct me if I'm wrong—you seem to think that I am good enough for you, perhaps even too good for you. Is that—is that how you feel?"

John doesn't answer at first. Harold holds his breath, waiting, waiting, until John quietly says, "Yes."

Satisfied, Harold curls a finger around one of John's—just the tiniest link between the two of them. "I know you don't believe me, John, but I think you are quite incredible. Your kindness, your compassion, your generosity—every single day, you do something that leaves me in awe. Your work with the numbers, your charitable deeds, your affection for Bear. How you treat someone as undeserving and as flawed as me.

"But tonight, you..." The ache in his throat tightens, and Harold tries to clear it. _You hurt me,_ his traitorous mind finishes. Harold dismisses it immediately—John is already forgiven. He speaks again, making great effort to keep from sounding accusatory. "John, I would like to know why you lied to me. Over the years, I have gotten quite good at recognizing those rare times when my affections for someone else are returned. I've had to. I'm not...I'm no good at this sort of thing. So I would appreciate it if you would offer me the courtesy of telling me the truth. Of telling me _why_."

"Same reason I do a lot of things," John says. "I did it to protect you."

"Not once have I ever asked for your protection," Harold retorts, gently. "And I would certainly never ask you to protect me from this sort of danger.

"I think we could be good together," he continues. "I think we could find a great deal of happiness with each other. Whether either of us deserves it? I'm not sure I have an accurate answer for that."

As Harold speaks, his body begins voicing its own set of objections. Reluctantly, he gets to his feet, pulling himself upright with a tight grip on the banister and a groan he can't bite back. His joints pop—which ones, he's not certain. Oh, he's getting too old for this sort of thing.

John watches him closely, concern in his eyes, but to Harold's immense gratitude, he doesn't offer assistance. If it were needed, he would. He'd do anything to help if it were necessary. Even break his own still-beating heart into pieces and lay them all at Harold's feet—something he strongly suspects John attempted to do tonight.

"I'd like to know how you feel about me," Harold says. "The honest truth—not what you think I need to hear."

John's eyes fall shut, and he turns his head away. "Harold..."

"John, please." The words come out smaller, more broken than he'd like. Without thinking, he reaches out and touches John's cheek, intending to urge John to turn his way again. Instead, John leans into the touch, and Harold cradles his dear, dear face in his palm. "Please," Harold repeats. "If this—if _I_ am not what you want, please tell me, and we will never speak of this again."

Without his own permission, Harold's thumb moves over John's lips, over delicate, pink skin that is rough to the touch. His fondness grows. How can chapped lips be worthy of such an upswell of affection, he wonders, until they press a tiny, almost imperceptible kiss to the pad of his thumb. "But if my feelings are returned, I would quite like to know. I need...I need to hear you say how you feel—how you truly feel—about me."

"I think you've already figured it out, Harold." His words brush warmly against Harold's hand, before he turns and favors Harold with a wry, breathtaking smile that makes Harold's heart skip beats. "You're a lot smarter than me. And you're a romantic."

"You're quite intelligent yourself," Harold says. "Which means you probably know I need this spelled out for me. I'm a romantic, yes, but the part where the romance is initiated? It is...beyond my understanding and capabilities, I'm afraid."

John nods and says, "I'm sorry," and, for a moment, Harold's heart drops. John doesn't leave the broken organ on the floor for long. "I just wanted to protect the guy I love. Think I hurt him more than I helped, though."

"Well, I'm certain he is more than willing to allow you to make it up to him," Harold says. "Perhaps over dinner, in the very near future?"

At John's hopeful look, Harold says, "Let's try this again, shall we?" and John gets to his feet. Harold watches him rise, his long body unfurling, and a pleasant shiver runs through him. Oh, John is so very tall, so beautiful. His gaze centers on Harold, so focused Harold can almost feel it on his skin, and, oh, the way John looks at him. No, he wasn't mistaken at all, was he?

Harold steps toward him, feeling brave and terrified, certain John can surely hear the pounding of his heart. John meets him halfway and pulls him into his arms, and Harold finally feels like he can breathe. "John," he says, his voice trembling, as John's hands settle on his body—one moving to cradle his head, the other splaying carefully upon the aching small of his back. All words vanish from Harold's mind, and his own awkward hands fumble to find the right hold on John's body, settling inadequately upon John's hips. John's hands feel so large on his body, so good, strong and firm yet gentle. He's always found John's hands captivating, and there they are, touching him, holding him close.

But they're not nearly as captivating as John's eloquent eyes. They look down at him with such warmth, such fondness that Harold fears his heart might explode. His mouth goes dry, and he licks his lips reflexively. John's gaze follows the movement, the path of his tongue, and, oh, no, it turns out Harold was mistaken about being able to breathe.

"I'm in love with you, too," John says. "Scares the hell out of me."

Harold nods. "I'm quite terrified myself, to be honest. You have—" His throat clenches again. He tries to clear it. "You have become a vital part of my life, and I'd like you to become an even greater part of it, if you'll have me."

"Yeah," John whispers. "I—" His voice catches. "Really do feel that way about you. But I'm kind of an idiot about it."

"No," Harold says. "You were trying to protect me. And I appreciate that—I do. I just...wish you'd _stop_."

John's lips curve into a smile. "Never," he says, and he closes the distance between them with a kiss.


End file.
